


Sickness of the Soul

by Run_of_the_mill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depressed!Tom, Good!Dumbledore, I literally don't know why I'm putting this up on New Year Eve, M/M, Obsessed!Tom, Still doesn't excuse what he did, The rape is not graphically described, There is a graphic description of Suicide in here, Tom is a very hurt and very sick boy, ambiguous ending, hurt!harry, please do not read if you're in a fragile state
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_of_the_mill/pseuds/Run_of_the_mill
Summary: To Tom Marvolo Riddle, love comes in the form of a green-eyed boy with laughter always on the corner of his lips. But Tom has done something terrible to his beloved and, now, Harry's laughter may be lost forever. Tom feels filthy. He feels worthless. He's the monster Mr Riddle has warned Sister Mary-Anne he would become. Just like his mother. So, Tom disappears, leaving behind a scene from his darkest nightmares in Slytherin dorm.





	Sickness of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I feel about this story. I'm not completely satisfied with it but I can't seem to make it any better. I'm terribly sorry for the ending. I believe that it's best for you to come up with the one that best suits you because my mind becomes a dark place when I'm writing angst. I left it open, for you to imagine the ending that best suits you.
> 
> Now, this is an important thing I want to say:  
> If you ever come to the point that you think dying is the best option, I am not the one who will tell you that you're making a mistake. I don't fully understand the depth of your suffering. I don't fully understand your tears. But, I do want to say this. Before you go through with the act, please find someone you can trust and explain, to the best of your ability, what you are going through. Please do not feel that your pain is lesser than anyone else's. Though it might be true that others may have suffered more than you, that does not make your feelings any less valid. Whatever you feel, whatever hurts you, all of it has validity. It may seem stupid to you and to everyone else. But even then, your feelings are valid and important. You're worth all the time and attention required to help you. The following a link to the suicide hotlines in Canada. If you live in another country, please google your hotlines. I'd be more than happy if the readers would post the hotlines for other countries in the comments.
> 
> http://www.suicide.org/hotlines/international/canada-suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> I hope this story isn't too bad.

Being in love was all well and fine. But being in love with someone who did not return the feeling was, in Tom’s humble opinion, the most excruciating thing one could ever have the misfortune of experiencing. The pain becomes a constant companion and overtakes your whole life. It makes you do such incredibly stupid things. Had Tom known he would become this mess, he might have ended his life years ago, blasted be his fear of death. As it was, he found himself often considering it.

Tom considered death at least once a day and in several instances, every single one of which were stupid to incredible extents.

Tom considered death when he realised he had not been worth his mother’s struggle to live. The matrons at the orphanage had told him that she died the moment he opened his eyes. She only lived long enough to name him. _Ah_ , Tom had thought. _I must have been worthless to her. Why else would she leave me behind?_ He’d quickly gotten over that though. He was going to show her and everyone else that he deserved every breath he took. Perhaps he deserved life even more than the average person. Unlike others, Tom worked very hard to be deserving of life.

Tom considered death when Sister Mary-Anne happily skipped into his room with news that she had finally located his father. She had sat down on his bed and they had eagerly called Tom Riddle Sr. on her cell phone. She put it on loud speaker so Tom could hear too. Her grin quickly morphed into a grimace when Tom Sr. had called Tom’s mother a filthy whore who had raped him and yelled that he wanted nothing to do with her disgusting offspring. He had probably spewed more hate but Sister Mary-Anne, bless her kind heart, had run out the room, screaming at him to shut the fuck up. She had done penance for the swearing in the orphanage’s small chapel later on while Tom had laid in bed with the understanding that he was filth and unwanted. He considered death in that moment. But then, he thought of Sister Mary-Anne and how she reveled in his rare laughter and smiles. Tom Riddle Sr. may not have wanted him, but Sister Mary-Anne did and Tom could live with that. He may be filth and he may be worthless, but he wasn’t unwanted.

Then, one day, Tom met Harry Potter.

 Harry Potter was the most beautiful thing Tom had ever laid his eyes upon. The way he laughed, the way he talked, the way his whole body lit up when he was flying. He was so beautiful that Tom fell in love almost instantaneously. But Harry was the one thing that made Tom consider death to the point where it consumed his whole life.

Tom considered death when Harry smiled at someone who wasn’t him. He considered death when Harry touched someone who wasn’t him. He considered death when Harry stared at him with deep loathing. He considered death when Harry cried fat tears as Tom fucked him into the mattress, in an impulsive fit where he had finally found himself unable to wait for the green-eyed boy’s consent any longer.

“I hate you,” Harry whispered, brokenly when Tom finally let him up again. Tom nodded and curled into a tight ball at the end of the bed. Harry did the same on the bed’s other end, not out of choice, but because it hurt too much to move.

“You’ll turn yourself in, right?” Harry asked, hopefully from his corner.

“Would that make you happy?” Tom asked back, instead of answering. Harry nodded and Tom sighed. “Then, yes. I’ll turn myself in.”

“Good,” Harry mumbled, before falling into a fitful sleep.

***

“Did you hear?” Ron asked Harry the next day, in Transfiguration class. The redhead was fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat and Harry noticed that a number of the other students were doing the same. There was a general sense of unease permeating the very air.

“Hear what?” Harry questioned. It was Hermione who answered.

“Riddle’s missing,” she said. Harry barely had time to feel betrayed that Tom had broken his promise before she continued. “Malfoy says he woke up to find Tom’s bed in Slytherin dorm covered in blood. Malfoy thinks it was his blood and he told us there was so much, he didn’t think Riddle was still alive.”

“They called the aurors in,” Ron added. “Percy came with them too. He’s the Head of the DMLE’s secretary, these days. Bartemius Crouch. Barty’s dad.” Barty, a handsome brown-haired Slytherin in their year, leaned into the conversation at the mention of his name. He’d been sitting behind them and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when he spoke.

“I was there,” he said. “I saw the bed. It was horrible. His duvet was soaked red and there was this muggle retracting knife just lying there. The aurors cleared us all out before they started working, but I managed to stop Percy on his way out. He wouldn’t tell me much, but he did tell me that it was an apparent suicide.”

“Yeah,” Ron continued, “Percy also told me something about that. He says they found his wand in a pool of blood and his diary was on his pillow. Perce says the diary chilled him to the bones. The Aurors showed him so he could catalogue it. He says he’s going to have nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“What’s that mean?” Barty asked, confused.

“I dunno,”Ron answered.

“Probably that Tom was in a really bad place,” Hermione interjected, sadly. “If he took his own life, then he must’ve been suffering quite a bit, for quite a while. Maybe he documented all of his pain in the diary. I can’t imagine that would’ve made a nice read.” Barty and Ron nodded, both looking rather solemn.

“That’s impossible,” Harry said with certainty. “I saw him last night. He was fine. I saw him all this week and he was fine. He was smiling and laughing and joking. He even did _that_ to me. He wasn’t _depressed_!” Harry had gotten so frantic by the end of his tirade that he attracted the attention of the rest of the class.

“Harry,” Hermione said, putting a soothing hand on his shoulder, “depressed people often become masterful actors. They learn to hide their pain because they might feel like burdens on others. It’s really not your fault for not noticing. You would’ve done your best to help him had he let you see his pain.”

“What’d he do to you?” Ron asked with a frown, picking up the one snippet that Harry would’ve rather have gone unnoticed. Sometimes Ron could be more perceptive than even Hermione. His question led to Barty and Hermione staring at him intently, expecting an answer. But Harry just couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think it. He was so ashamed of what had happened to him. This sort of thing happened to girls, to vulnerable people. Not to quidditch captains with hard muscles all over their bodies. Not to Harry Potter, Gryffindor’s golden boy.

Harry was so ashamed.

“Nothing!” Harry snarled instead of answering. He shoved his books and stationery into his bag, then ran out of the class just as McGonagall was coming in. He did not stop even when she called his name. Tom was _not_ depressed and he most certainly was _not dead_. The git must’ve run away instead of keeping his promise to Harry. He probably wanted to save his precious reputation and this whole nonsense was some sort of well-orchestrated scheme to do just that. Yes, that must be it.

“He’s probably still alive,” Harry heard just before he rounded the next corner. It was Professor Snape and he wasn’t alone. Harry immediately stopped and pressed himself to the wall, hoping to hear more.

“I’m really not sure about that,” came Professor Dumbledore’s worried voice. “You saw how much blood was on that bed.”

“Tom is, for lack of a better word, deathly afraid of death,” a voice Harry recognised as Slughorn’s said. “He wouldn’t be able to do that to himself. Something big must’ve happened.”

“Potter,” came Snape’s voice. For a brief moment, Harry thought, with no small amount of fear, that he’d been caught. But the fear was for naught as Snape continued: “Riddle’s been mooning after the boy forever. Maybe something happened between them. Add that to Riddle’s teenage hormones and does it really seem that improbable?”

“Harry was certainly mentioned an awful number of times in that diary,” Dumbledore muttered.

“Oh, please,” Slughorn whimpered. “Can we not talk about that accursed thing. It still gives me the shivers. I can’t believe that a boy as bright as Tom was so disturbed. I never noticed anything.”

“None of us did,” Snape said, disgust laced in his voice. “Lily can never hear about this. She might have a heart attack if she ever heard how Riddle looked at her precious boy.”

“Harry can never hear about this either,” Dumbledore added, gravely. “He and Tom were close friends. He might never recover if he found out exactly how Tom saw him.”

“We’ll need to talk to him, though,” Snape insisted. “As you said, he and Tom were close friends. The aurors will want to speak to him. And the rest of Tom’s friends. They’re all going to find out about the unsavoury aspects of Hogwarts’ precious Head Boy’s life. This will turn very ugly very fast.”

“I still can’t process it,” Slughorn muttered miserably. “How could _Tom_ have turned out like that. He was such a good boy.”

“This just goes to show how little anyone truly knew about him,” Dumbledore said, sadly.

At this point, Harry had heard quite enough. He knew exactly how Slughorn felt. Before last night, Harry would’ve never believed that Tom Riddle, Hogwarts’ Head Boy and Most Desirable Boy, could be such a disgusting bastard. But after being… Harry could not even think the word. It was so difficult to reconcile the act with Tom. Tom had always been so perfect and Harry just knew that, if Tom had made his interest known, it wouldn’t have taken him long to woo Harry. Why had he resorted to- to r-rape? Harry found himself on the seventh floor, crying near the Room of Requirement’s entrance. And where had the son of a bitch disappeared to, anyways?

Harry stood up with renewed vigor. He would find Tom Riddle and extract answers from him. With that determination, he paced in front of the wall and willed the Room to provide him with a means to find the elusive Head Boy. The door shimmered into existence and Harry pushed it open. What he found inside nearly had him fainting from shock.

***

Tom sat cross-legged on his bed in Slytherin dorm. He had taken off his robe and shirt and was barefoot. The only piece of clothing on him was his slacks. He figured that, the less clothes he dirtied, the better. Maybe another poor orphan could use his already-second-hand clothing. There was no need to be wasteful. He pulled his diary from his bedside table, closed his curtains, cast silencing charms, and laid the diary and his wand on his pillow. He wouldn’t use his wand for this, wouldn’t desecrate it like that. From his pocket, he produced a switchblade he’d filched from Billy Stubbs last summer. Tom smiled at the memory of the idiot blundering around the orphanage, angrily looking for the thief. He had been unable to bring the theft to the matrons’ attention because none of the orphans were allowed to have weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. The switchblade definitely qualified as such. Tom had never imagined that this was what the thing would end up being used for. When he had stolen it, he had intended for it to be an insurance in case magic was unavailable for whatever reason. Tom liked to be prepared.

Tom had cried ugly tears all the way from the Room of Requirement, where he had r- _raped_ Harry, to the Slytherin dorms. Thankfully, it had been after curfew and no one had stopped him. Filch had passed by him but had refrained from screaming at him. Tom figured it had something to do with the tears and snot covering his face. It was just as well. Tom was filthy and disgusting. He was a worthless bastard. His mother had not loved him enough to stay alive for him and his father thought he was the filth in the gutter. For the first time in his life, Tom believed that Tom Sr. had had the right idea. Tom had no right to live. He was the product of rape. He was unloved and unwanted. And now? Now, he was even a monster. He’d done something disgusting to Harry. Tom was a disgusting, filthy, worthless monster. So, he cried all the way to the Slytherin dorm.

But now, Tom was very calm. His tears had dried up and his face had been cleaned with a quick _scourgify_. His eyes were still puffy and his nose was red and felt stuffed. But that no longer mattered. He was ready. The diary would act as his final note and fulfill his promise to Harry.

Tom was ready.

***Aight. There is a graphic depiction of an attempt to die by suicide below. If you think you might be triggered or if you think you cannot stomach reading this, please skip to the next bolded text.***

He picked up the switchblade and poised it against his wrist. He took a deep breath and pushed the point into his wrist, then drew the blade in a straight line to his elbow. The blood started pouring fast and Tom knew he didn’t have very long to make a cut in his other arm. He quickly took the blade into his bloodied hand and put it to his uninjured arm. The blood made the handle slippery, so this second cut was a lot more messy than the first. But Tom had achieved his goal and was now bleeding rapidly from both arms. With a sigh, he let the switchblade drop to the mattress, below him.

***Okay. You can look now. If you or anyone you know is considering suicide, please call a help line or even 911, if you don’t know what the help line is in your country. Whatever your pain, whatever your suffering, you deserve to be heard at least one time before it comes to this. Do not hesitate to look for help. You’re worth the effort. Never forget that.***

It felt like minutes, but it must have been mere seconds before Tom started to panic. He reached for his wand but his hands were bloody and slippery. They were also shaking and Tom was unable to hold the length of yew properly. It slipped through his fingers, the white wood dyed red with his life-blood, and he fell forward, weakly. His last conscious thought was: _I don’t want to die._

***

Albus Dumbledore hurriedly followed a very agitated-looking Harry Potter up to the Hogwarts seventh floor. It seemed that young Harry was leading him straight to the chamber pot room. Albus had no idea why. When Harry paced in front of the bare wall, Albus theorised that, perhaps the room was only filled with chamber pots when Albus was involved. Harry certainly did not seem like he would need one, right then. The chamber’s door appeared and Harry very nearly flew through it. Albus followed him in and felt the colour quickly draining from his face.

The room was _not_ , in fact, filled with chamber pots. There was a four-poster bed in the middle of it. It’s creamy pink linen was soiled with fresh-looking blood and, leading from it to a corner, was what Albus noticed, with quite a bit of fear, to be a proper river of blood. There was so much of it that the professor was certain that whoever it belonged to was long dead. He looked up to the corner where Harry had settled on his knees. The source of the blood was sitting there too, skin pale and clammy, face against his drawn-up knees and arms lying limp on either side. Terrible gashes decorated each paper-white forearm.

Tom Riddle had become the stuff of nightmares.

“Please, Professor,” Harry said in a watery voice. It broke Albus out of his horrified stupor. “You have to help.”

“Of course, my boy,” Albus answered. He rushed over to the two students and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. Albus fully expected him to be dead but, for Harry’s sake, he had to at least try. Hence, it was no surprise that the headmaster screamed a little when Tom slowly lifted his head to meet his gaze. “H-how-”

“I don’t know,” Tom immediately cut, hoarsely. He seemed on the verge of passing out.

“Harry, go get Madame Pomfrey,” Albus told the other boy. The student immediately jumped into action and ran off.

“I don’t want to die,” Tom said in a small voice.

“You won’t,” Albus answered firmly.

“Promise?” Tom asked, innocent hope in his eyes.

“I swear,” Albus vowed, “we’ll do everything we possibly can to save you.” Tom gave him a small, broken smile and they waited in silence for Harry to return with the mediwitch.

***

“There’s  nothing I can do, Albus,” Madame Pomfrey told Dumbledore as they all stepped out of the Room, minus Tom. “As long as he’s in there, the Room’s magic will keep interfering. It’s keeping him alive for now but it’s too volatile for me to even attempt a healing. I could end up making it worse. He needs to come out. But the moment he steps out, he’ll immediately start dying. We’ll need to be very quick about healing him. With your permission, I’d like to call professionals from St-Mungo’s to be on standby. Just let me know as soon as you’re ready to step out with him.”

“How soon can they get here?” Dumbledore asked.

“One hour, maybe six,” Madame Pomfrey answered. “They’ll need time to organise the departure of a few healers. It’s really not that easy to get the two-three healers we’ll need for this to just randomly come over here. They’ll need to find replacements to cover those shifts they’ll be missing.”

“Alright,” Dumbledore answered, “I’ll go talk to Tom. Harry, you can go back to Gryffindor tower.” Harry knew this was coming, that they were going to dismiss him as soon as they no longer had need of him. But he could not leave Tom. Not right now. Despite that terrible thing Tom had done to him, Harry was too used to caring for the bastard of a Head Boy. His mind told him that he should leave the rotten sod to fend for himself. But his soul had seen the fear in Tom’s eyes and, at least for now, Harry’s nurturing instinct trumped his hatred.

“No,” Harry plead. “Don’t make me leave him. He’s one of my best friends. He needs me here.”

“Harry-”

“No! I’m not leaving!”

Professor Dumbledore sighed, but seemed to relent. He followed Harry through the room’s door. Tom had let his legs fall and splay in front of him. His back was leaned to the wall and his arms lay limp on either sides of his body. He was casting a glassy stare towards the bed. Harry was not sure what he was thinking about but he hoped that Tom remembered that this bed was the very one he had forced Harry upon. Harry hoped that the bed tortured Tom with the memory of his crime. It would be unfair if only Harry was tortured by the shame of what he had allowed to happen to him here.

“It’s on me,” Tom rasped. “Stop thinking that. Stop thinking any of it was your fault.” Harry thought he seemed on the verge of tears. Then he remembered what Malfoy had told him about Tom’s ability with Legilimency.

“So it’s not enough you defiled my body,” Harry snapped, angrily. “You have to do it to my mind too!” Harry heard Dumbledore gasp behind him, but paid him no mind. At this point, his whole world was made of only he, Tom, and their pain.

“I didn’t look in your mind,” Tom snapped back, hoarsely. Then, in a softer voice: “I just happen to know you very well.”

“So well that you thought you were allowed anything, right?” Harry asked, angry tears streaming down his face.

“It’s not your fault,” Tom insisted, instead of answering him. “It’s my fault. I’m a monster. A filthy, worthless, disgusting monster. None of this is your fault. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Harry wet his lips with his tongue.

“I could’ve fought it better,” he mumbled. “I’m Gryffindor’s quidditch captain. I’m strong. I should’ve been able to fight it. Maybe… Maybe I did something to provoke you. Maybe I made you do it.” Tom made a pained face at that. As if he could not understand why Harry would say that. He pushed himself off the wall and fell forward, with his head on Harry’s chest. Harry was unable to move away, the thought of Tom falling and hurting himself anymore than this sickened him.

Tom reached up, slowly and weakly, with bloody hand and wiped at Harry’s tears, head still on the latter’s chest.

“Sorry,” he muttered weakly, “I got blood on your face.”

“You do a lot of things you’re sorry for,” Harry said, with a snort. “This isn’t over. We’ll talk about this properly after you get better.”

“Tom,” Dumbledore interrupted. Harry had forgotten he was there and was both mortified and alarmed about what the professor had just heard. Bit Dumbledore made no indication he’d acknowledged the boys’ conversation. “In a few hours, Madame Pomfrey will wait outside the Room with a team of healers. As long as you’re in the Room, they cannot heal you as the Room’s magic seems to be keeping you alive at the moment.”

“Why does that mean they can’t heal me here?” Tom asked, ever the inquisitive mind. Professor Dumbledore smiled at him, indulgently.

“The Room’s magic is unknown,” he explained. “Poppy worries it might react negatively with the healing magic, leaving you worse off than you already are.” Tom nodded in understanding.

“What happens when I leave the room?”

“The healers will have to work quickly. Poppy believes you’ll start dying immediately. But that’s why she’s bringing in professionals.”

“Tell me the truth,” Tom whispered against Harry’s chest. “How likely am I to survive.”

“Poppy wouldn’t say,” Dumbledore told him, benevolent smile sliding off his face. “But I inferred from her tone that the chances are slim.”

“Then there’s a chance I’ll live if the healers get to me?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” Tom said quietly.

***

It was time. The healers were waiting outside and Harry stood up with him, helping Tom to the door. The healers were armed with their wands and potions galore, ready for him to step out. When they reached the door, Tom let go of Harry and leaned against the doorjamb.

_Enough of this_ , Tom thought. _No more running away._ He gathered his magic and raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. The other boy gave him an encouraging smile and Tom returned it. Tom took a deep breath and looked towards the healers.

“I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Insults?
> 
> P.S.: I don't mind you being disrespectful of me, but please mind other people's feelings. I'm in a good place. That doesn't mean everyone here is too.


End file.
